


Imperial Bylaws

by blastitlouder



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Rebellion
Genre: Gen, Past Violence, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6174562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blastitlouder/pseuds/blastitlouder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is more important than the Imperial dress code.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperial Bylaws

**Author's Note:**

> The self-indulgent rambling fanfic no one asked for about a Star Wars videogame that no one cared about, ever.  
> It's sixteen years late and I imagine nine-year old me would give me the dirtiest glare for how I didn't rewrite their totally not-gay wedding on the Executioner after winning the war for the Emperor BEFORE deciding to write this, but hey. Tastes change, Nine-Year-Old-Me. We like getting choked by our clothes before marriage now.  
> So here it is, a sixteen year late tribute to a kid's droid thirst.

“Have no fear! Your commander has arrived!”

No one looked up at the jubilant noise, eyes firmly on their consoles and fingers firmly typing away at interfaces. Whether it was out of fear of the overseer droid, IMP-22, or of his master’s strange and whimsical tempers, it was not clear, but was a habit formed out of necessity. It was not entirely unusual for IMP-22 to crash his delicately partitioned control programs in favor of choking out his master on the bridge.

Fortunately for this day’s morale, IMP-22 had settled on glaring—no mean feat, considering his lack of facial structure—at his approaching owner, tension settling into the droid’s shoulders as the bouncing officer took careful visual stock of his human subordinates. Commander Iago Rigger was more than content to make IMP-22 wait, languidly prowling the edge of the pits as he examined each ensign’s work station.

“No one was in fear of your absence, sir.” His voice was, if at all possible, less charitable than his non-expression, terse and strained as Iago kneeled down to steal an ensign’s caf off of their work station. “As it is, you are precisely thirteen minutes and forty-three seconds late, and I do not—“

“—think it’s appropriate for me to waltz in here late?” Commander Rigger passed off a roguish wink as he straightened, taking a luxurious sip of the liquid caffeine as he resumed his walk towards IMP-22.

“Correct. Nor do I feel it behooves you to look so slovenly on duty.” Iago blinked, mouth twisting into an offended sneer before his patting hand located the source of his unkempt appearance: his collar had come undone in his rush to make it to the bridge and he was exposing a whole three inches of his neck and collarbone to the command center. Snorting his derision into the mug, he deliberately left the aberration alone, knowing it would keep frustrating his droid’s circuits as he wandered past his red plated comrade to examine the galactic overview. The enormous screen winked back to its default showing as he approached, abandoning detailed manufacturing reports from four planets in favor of presenting the tiny star-marks of each known system and planet in the galaxy.

“Noted. I think I’ll leave it for now. The Empire has more pressing concerns than my collar, IMP.”

“It is very unprofessional, sir.”

“If you want it fixed, fix it yourself. Otherwise, I’m going to stand here with…” He paused to examine the mug. It was charmingly decorated with Chandrilan roses and he knew exactly which of his unfortunately human ensigns it belonged to. “…Ensign Novar’s over-sweetened caf and catch up on our popularity ratings in the Corellian System, with my collar scandalously undone. Is that acceptable, IMP-22?”

The droid manufactured a modulated sigh, the lights in his helm dimming as the commander stared the droid down. Sensing victory, Iago turned his attention back to the overview, squinting at the tiny blips of planets clustered into systems on the map. Even with the color-coded filter, he was having some difficulty making out the values and he held his hand out to his right, snapping his fingers until one of his staff placed the command pad into his palm. He made a mental note to examine Ensign Kir’s performance again; this marked the second time he’d gotten to the overview without the pad in hand and inefficiency was intolerable in his human staff.

Using his pinky to navigate the pad, he soon had the overview focusing in on the Corellian System, eyes scanning over the numbers on the screen. Frowning, he drew up the comparative analysis from last week’s shifts, unable to resist one last dig at his robotic companion as he realized the droid had been silent for several minutes now.

“That’s what I thought. I only have two hands, you know.”

“You are very right, sir.”

Without warning, the cherry fingers of IMP-22 grabbed Iago by his collar and yanked, forcibly dragging the officer a foot closer to his designated rest position as his fingers began fussing with the man’s collar. To his credit, Iago yelped at the upset of his purloined beverage, holding the mug free of their frames as the motion came dangerously close to sloshing caf all over them both.

“Really, IMP? I nearly spilt this!” Iago’s protestation went unheeded and, after a moment of inactivity, returned to his duties with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, using IMP-22’s shoulder to confirm his data inquiry. “This is very distracting.”

“Your productivity has only diminished by 0.005 percent,” IMP-22 informed crisply, settling the last fastening before yanking the collar up to a respectable height. Iago gagged as the cloth caught him under the jaw;if IMP-22 cared about choking his master, he made no move to show it.“A tolerable aberration considering your lateness reduced your projected productivity today by a full four percent.”

Rubbing at his throat over his fastened collar—Iago knew from experience any further upset to his uniform would end with his favorite protocol droid slamming him against a bulkhead—the officer sent the mech a bemused look.

“I always stay late.”

“Your inability to keep promised hours makes it hard to predict appropriate numbers.”

“Of course it does.”

With the matter of his uniform settled, Iago turned his full attention back to the galactic overview, noting with a dismayed pout that the polls on Commenor had only improved by half a percent. He started composing a short message to his agents on the planet, something scathing and hopefully threatening, when IMP-22 interrupted his thoughts.

“I believe, sir, the time is prudent to remind you of certain bylaws in the Imperial Code.”

“Oh?” Raising an eyebrow, Iago lowered the pad enough to take another sip of his drink, deliberately avoiding attaching his gaze to the droid. “Which ones?”

“Section 36, regarding personal conduct and behavior whilst enlisted within the Imperial Navy. Subsection 11, Sentence 45 through 46. And I quote, any member of the Galactic Empire, enlisted or ranking officers, must uphold all codes of behavior and appearance forthwith to the full satisfaction of the Emperor. Any failure to uphold these codes will be reported for immediate evaluation and appropriate discipline.”

“Is that so? And what’s the standard discipline for officers who don’t comply, IMP?”

Iago turned to stare his droid down as the mech did some quick searching in his databanks. Perhaps, Iago thought, IMP-22 was merely pausing for effect. It was very hard to tell sometimes and the droid had a terrible sense of humor. Then, with a voice rich with something terribly adjacent to wistful satisfaction, IMP-22 responded.

“Death by firing squad, sir. One cannot let bad examples spread seeds of discord in the ranks, after all.”

Chuckling, Iago rested the mug on the edge of his lips as he switched his gaze back to the overview, opting to allow IMP-22’s intense consideration to roll off his shoulders.

“No, I suppose one can’t.”


End file.
